


Under Her Eye

by Gabracadabra



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, F/F, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian AU, Mentions of Suicide, Rape, Religion, the handmaid's tale au that nobody asked for but i wanted to see in the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 21:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabracadabra/pseuds/Gabracadabra
Summary: A Handmaid's Tale AU where Brooke, numb to the horrors of Gilead, finds hope in her new handmaid.





	1. The Commander's Wife

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to upload the story here for an easier reading experience! It will still be updated on AQ however. Many many thanks to Meggie for beta-ing! Enjoy!

Brooke Lynn Hytes was terribly lucky.

Well, terribly being the operative word. She was not dead nor a slave, but the world is terrible, and she got lucky.

The world in question is Gilead, a bloody dictatorship drenched in gospel, carved into what once was the United States of America. On the outside, it was a picture of peace: white, gorgeous buildings in the city centers, surrounded by the large, sprawling homes of the commanders. Trees dotting the clean streets as women in red walked in pairs, to and from the shopping district. All you have to do is ignore the soldiers, known as  _ Guardians, _ stationed at every block, gun in hand. All you have to do is ignore the wall decorated with the hanging bodies of heretics and rebels. All you have to do is shut your ears to the deafening silence of the slaves they name handmaids. Yes, it certainly is peaceful.

The war broke out so slowly it was as if it had been leading to this moment for a thousand years. It started with a few controversial figures preaching across TV screens. Then laws changed, then borders closed, then people were taken, silenced, murdered. It was a crack in the mirror, slowly spreading, branching, twisting until you could no longer see a reflection through the panes of glass. Until you forgot what reflection was supposed to be there in the first place. Until you found relief in the shatter because  _ finally, we see clearly again.  _ Until you forgot that seeing clearly meant no longer seeing what once was. Gilead was the shatter, where society was completely knocked down and replaced. Commanders ruled the country as though they were touched by God. Wives belonged to their husbands. Handmaids bore children they could never keep. Marthas cooked and cleaned. Unwomen worked and died. Everyone pretended they were happy doing God’s work. No one was.

Life was superficial at most, and at the very least, it was placating. Wives didn’t complain, Marthas did as they were told, and Handmaids shut their mouths. If anyone remembered the time before the war, they dismissed it as a dream, pushed those memories so far down the recesses of their brains so maybe, just maybe, they would forget how sweet freedom tasted.

Brooke remembered. She remembered the rows upon rows of books lined in her family’s study. She remembered dancing ballet in her studio, floating above the wooden floor. She remembered the day she was promoted to partner in her father’s firm. She remembered kissing girls and giggling in empty hallways and conference rooms. She remembered her father bringing her to museums and historical sites, telling her to learn their history so it never repeats. She also remembered the days leading up to the war. How she had watched the book burnings in the streets. How she cried when they told her she couldn’t dance anymore. How they had stripped her of her position in her father’s firm, just as they would’ve appointed her CEO. How her past girlfriends had slowly disappeared into black vans, never to be seen again. How she sat by her father’s deathbed as he whispered his goodbyes, his apologies. How she signed her name on a marriage certificate next to that of the man who took her place in her father’s company. How her father asked her to marry George, just before Gilead formed, just before his last breath.

_ He is a man of God. He will keep you safe. He will keep you alive.  _ These last words echoed in her ears when she signed away her possessions, her body, her life to the man who is now her husband. Her father didn’t say he would be kind. He didn’t say he would be good. Just that he would keep her safe.

_ He will keep you alive _ . The word was cruelty dressed in kindness.

George Hytes was a powerful man, and he did as every powerful man did: seek more power. He sat on Gilead’s highest council, making decisions for people he would never know, signing away the freedoms of people he would never meet. Brooke didn’t know what he was in charge of, now that the firm had been absorbed by the state. She didn’t know and she would never know. Her place wasn’t there anymore, it was at his home, playing the part of his perfect wife. He never hurt her at least, he was never cruel or abusive. Simply cold, much to Brooke’s gratitude. She knew she had more than most. She had a beautiful home, a Martha—what this new society called their housekeepers—named Nina, and all the knitting yarn and baked bread she could want. Her husband demanded nothing of her, he didn’t touch her. And if Nina screamed on days he came home drunk, if the handmaid cried out late at night behind a locked door, Brooke couldn’t say a thing. She simply sunk into her mattress, forcing her mind to go numb, forcing her eyes to close and let her escape for just a few hours.

  
  


Brooke’s daily routine started with her waking up just as the sun was rising. She would brush her blonde hair back and watch it fall just short of her shoulders, slick and out of the way. The long blue dress she was made to wear was stiff but elegant, and hit just above her ankles. No makeup, no perfume—she wouldn’t know where to begin looking for those anymore. The stores sold little else than essentials these days. They said it was to conserve resources for the war effort in the west, and yet there was always an abundance of prayer books and rosaries, lined with gold and pearl. Even the lotion she spread on her hands and neck was contraband, a luxury she could afford with the little pull she had left. She looked herself over, never longer than she needed to, tucking a stray hair behind her ear before heading out the door. Her husband was off again today, travelling across the country, motivating troops or whatever else he did. She didn’t know, didn’t ask. Brooke never had much to do anymore except for her daily appearance at the park with the other wives and the odd invitation to a gathering or a baby shower. She didn’t engage by choice, it was time wasted on insincere conversations with women just as clout-hungry as her husband, but it beat going crazy attempting to knit. All that, however, was in the afternoon, hours away. She went straight to her sitting room, drawing the curtains slightly and lighting a cigarette. Another luxury she risked enjoying, but never outside, never where someone could see. She was on her last box, maybe that was a sign of some sort. She could quit. She could find something that could kill her faster than a morning smoke. Just as she allowed herself a few more moments of contemplation, she heard footsteps down the hall, and a small push on her door.

“Pancakes Mrs. Hytes?” Nina bustled through Brooke’s sitting room, more jolly than usual. Well, more jolly than when Mr. Hytes was around. Nina paused at Brooke’s desk, looking at her with a furrowed brow. “You should really quit with those things. I’m not sure if I can get you more.” Nina said seriously, but with a glint in her eye that suggested she’d try anyway. She’d keep trying. Brooke smiled as she accepted the breakfast.

“I’ll try if you do.” 

Nina chuckled, shaking her head. How she managed to have any joy in this world was beyond Brooke. The older woman was a quiet comfort most days, her demeanor being especially light when the commander wasn’t around. Sometimes Brooke would ask her to talk to her in her sitting room, or during her meals, or as she sat in her bath. They weren’t allowed to talk about their old life, but bits and pieces slipped through. Nina would talk about her children, her dogs, her love for baking french pastries and reading stories to children in the libraries. It was an escape, a glimpse of something real. Nina never let it last however, she would end each story with a laugh full of sadness.  _ Could you imagine having to take care of dogs? Imagine having to teach little girls to read? Goodness, things are much simpler now aren’t they?  _ Almost like she was trying to convince herself of that very fact. Brooke couldn’t judge, they all had to cope somehow. As she sat and ate, Nina listed down her schedule and reminders for the day.

“Of course there’s your stroll after lunch, we’ve been sent good weather after all! Oh and the Baileys are inviting you to tea this afternoon so I’ve told the driver to prepare for that and um… oh! Yes, the new handmaid is set to arrive this evening—”

“Wait, come again?”

“Oh the new handmaid? The center is sending one over tonight seeing as our current Ofgeorge is to be sent to the colonies. She left just a while ago.” This stunned Brooke for a moment, but it wasn’t the first time she was kept in the dark under her own roof.

“What did she do?”

“Oh you know, she’s been with a few commanders and well…” Nina trailed off, trying to keep a sympathetic smile on her face. Brooke knew what that meant. She hadn’t gotten pregnant. And by the laws of state and scripture, if the fruit is rotten, so is the womb. “But nothing to fear! Our new Ofgeorge would be here soon enough. We’ll get a baby into your arms yet, Mrs. Hytes!” She said, happily tidying up the plates as Brooke finished.

“Praise be.” Brooke muttered absently. The thought of having a child through this system disgusted her at first. The idea of the handmaid disgusted her. Her husband, raping a poor girl, as she watched, as she held her down. After the first night of the ritual, Brooke had thrown up, cried into her pillow for days. She knew it would happen, she had been told it was the will of God, but to sit there, hold the girl, see the fear and sadness well up in her eyes because she was forbidden to let it reach her mouth, it was monstrous. Brooke was a monster, and she let that thought consume her, torture her every day until she was numb. Until she felt nothing. She never knew Ofgeorge’s real name, the handmaid was forbidden to say it. As far as anyone in Gilead was concerned, the handmaid belonged to her commander as though she was a branded possession in a bright red coat. Perhaps it was easier that way, possessions couldn’t feel pain. Possessions couldn’t be hurt. And if Brooke didn’t look her in the eye on the nights of the ritual, maybe she could believe it. Maybe she could stay numb.

The hours ticked by as the sun began to set, and Brooke was shedding her coat and gloves from a dull tea time with the Baileys. She sat at her desk, absentmindedly twirling some stray yarn around her finger, almost forgetting about the last item on today’s agenda when Nina entered her sitting room.

“Mrs. Hytes? Our new Ofgeorge is here.” Nina said warmly, gesturing to the small figure behind her draped in red, her hair covered in a white cap. Brooke breathed deeply, nodding at the two to enter as she rose from her seat.

“Blessed be the fruit, Ofgeorge.” Brooke said, taking in her appearance. She was much shorter than her, with deep caramel skin and dark curls peeking out from under her cap. Her eyelashes fluttered, eyes flitting nervously around the room. Her hands were clasped in front of her far too tightly to be in prayer, as if each fist was holding back the other. She was biting her lips so hard that they were turning red.

_ God, she is beautiful. _

Brooke’s thought came without warning, catching her by surprise. Almost cruel how some sensations can crawl their way out of repression so quietly. Her heart sped up, and in that moment she feared that someone would hear it. The handmaid’s eyes locked with hers, and she swears that in those eyes she saw fire and energy and anger and  _ life _ .

“May the Lord open.”


	2. The Handmaid

Vanessa was never quiet.

She was loud and manic and angry.

She was electric, and every injustice she saw sparked her into action. When the law changed—replacing constitution with religious canon, banning performance art, and stripping women of every right they’d ever bled for—she rioted right out on the streets, screaming for her life. Screaming for the lives of everyone she knew.

Vanessa was a performer by trade. She thrived under a spotlight, pouring her heart out every night yet still having enough left for an encore. When the arts center shut down, the rallies against the new government became her stage. She was no public speaker, and definitely no writer, but she had a fire in her eyes that set crowds alight. She was told to stop, threatened to stop, but the people loved her. They needed her.

It was five months into her protests, organizing rallies and mobilizing a small group—this time outside the White House—when it happened. As the president gave his address on the rising pressures the US was facing, a shot rang out, amplified across every speaker and every TV screen in America.

For a moment everything was silent, the guards stationed around the area looking far too calm as the president’s body lay behind the podium. Vanessa watched from her place behind a set of barricades, only one thought in her head.

_ It could be over.  _

She waited, prayed that the next person to take the stage would be an ally. Praying that the next words she would hear would be that this hell was finally over. She had yet to know hell.

Her hopes were crushed in an instant as a man approached the podium. He stood wearing a military uniform, with a cross fixed firmly onto his vest and a gun strapped to his back. The crowd, as if just registering the murder that took place, grew tense—screaming and wailing out as he spoke from the Bible in his hands.

_ The great dragon was hurled down - that ancient serpent called the devil, or satan, _

Vanessa—suddenly desperate to get away—grabbed the nearest protester, forcing them to start walking as she saw more men in uniform dispersed into the crowd.

_ who leads the whole world astray. _

She was screaming for them to head for the street when she saw one of the soldiers pull out his gun. She saw him take aim into the crowd.

_ He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him. _

The sounds of the screaming nearly rivalled the bullets that came from every direction.

Vanessa ran, pulling everyone she could from her group into the street, then into the buildings. They forced their way into a small store, ducking into the back room until they could no longer hear chaos outside. Until the sounds of shooting silenced.

The group made it out after a few hours, dodging the military men in the street, finding passage out of the city. What Vanessa found back at home was not any less unsettling. Her street was quiet, deserted. She made her way into her apartment, frantically trying to call for her mom, her friends, anyone—but there was no use. Her lines were cut, every radio signal jammed. The only thing playing on the TV screen was the same scene she had just escaped. The man in uniform speaking to a dying crowd.

_ God will wipe every tear from their eyes. _

_ There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, _

_ for the old order of things has passed away.  _

—

It had been two weeks since the assassination. Two weeks since the borders were ordered shut, and Gilead was declared open. The people in her neighborhood had already left, or perhaps they were taken? Killed? Vanessa didn’t know. It was only a matter of time before they took her. She still fought until the bitter end.

The secret police, the  _ Eyes _ , came to her with chains and bindings one morning. When the black van had stopped in her street she knew what was coming. She screamed about her rights, though they meant nothing now. She kicked and flailed as they grabbed her arms. It was no use. They bound her hands behind her back and gagged her, forcing her mouth shut. She nearly blacked out as she was shoved into the van.

She was taken to a hospital first. The number of tests and needles and samples they took from her left her dizzy. Next, she was brought to a courthouse, before a tribunal of commanders—who she was told were her new leaders. They accused her of being a lesbian,  _ a gender traitor _ , violating the laws of nature. They accused her of treason against the state for her riots. She spit each charge back at their faces, earning her a strike across her own. It was harsh and wet, and she couldn’t see anything but flashes of light behind her eyes.  _ This is it,  _ she thought, she almost hoped. At the end of her trial, when she was sure that she would be sentenced to death, there was a final, deafening accusation.

_ She is fertile. _

The tribunal silenced at this, looked towards Vanessa’s bloody face and wide eyes.  _ No. No no no NO _ — _.  _ She wanted to stop them, to beg for death. She had heard the rumours, she knew enough history to know what this could mean to their twisted, perverse minds, but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t fathom anything so cruel. She didn’t register the dismissal of the court until guardians were dragging her away.

—

She found herself in another van—god they loved their black vans—being driven for hours and hours. She was sure that she wasn’t in her own state, much less her own city anymore. When they finally stopped, she was led into a building that could have once been—a school? It had the same long halls, except without the lockers and bulletin boards. The classrooms had crosses over each doorway and posters with biblical figures plastered on every wall and window. She was still bound and gagged, sitting in what could’ve been a counselor’s office, as the Eyes left her with a warning to stay put. She wanted to laugh;  _ where else could she go?  _ She waited for a long while. Was it minutes? Hours? She didn’t know, there was no clock for her to read. In fact, the place was devoid of anything you could read.

“So you’re the feisty one.”

An older woman strode into the room. She was dressed in what could only be described as an old-fashioned nurse’s garb. Or maybe she was a nun? Or something in between. Vanessa looked at her wearily, not knowing if she wanted to slump over or charge her. She heard shuffling at the door and turned her head to see some other women standing just outside the room, heads down.

“Blessed be the fruit dear, you have been given a chance at redemption,” she said reaching for Vanessa’s gag, removing it.

“I—what the fuck.” Vanessa was vibrating with anger yet she had nothing more to say. She couldn’t even begin to speak to the woman in front of her, looking at her with such cruel amusement. She barely even got the words out before she was slapped clear across the face.

“No no, we can’t have that language anymore.” She tutted, forcing the smaller woman to stand up and join the line of girls outside.

“You see, you’re all sinners, impure stains on God’s earth. But He forgives, and He has given you all new life.” She turned to all the girls, unclipping a two-pronged rod from her hip. Some girls flinched as she pulled it out. “You will only speak words of praise from now on. Is that clear?” 

Vanessa grit her teeth at the tone. She could not stand this woman, could not stand how she was smiling at her as if she wouldn’t strike her again.

“Go fuck yourself.”

A sharp, searing pain hit her ribs as she was knocked to the ground, the girls around her gasping in shock. Electricity crackled at the tip of the device in the older woman’s hand, still positioned right at Vanessa’s side as she grabbed her hair, tilting her head to face hers.

“No. We say ‘Yes, Aunt Maria.’ Can you do that for me dear?”

Silence. Vanessa could barely hear with the stinging at her side. Another jab had her doubling over in pain.

“‘Yes, Aunt Maria.’ That’s easy enough isn’t it?”

“Yes, Aunt Maria.”

—

There were things that the girls were allowed to know. 

They were allowed to know that there was fighting. Of course there was no fighting in the country, not in  _ Gilead _ , but resistance groups in some of the states that managed to escape were fighting. Pushing back. They were allowed to know that they were far from the borders, whatever those borders may be. Far from any freedom.

They were allowed to know that they were to be called  _ handmaids,  _ and were to be gifted to the commanders to bear children. They were allowed to know that they were property, branded with a metal tag pierced into their ear. They were allowed to know that they were nothing. No name, no history, no connection to anyone. They were allowed to know that, if after six months, they were not pregnant, they would leave their commander’s home and move on to the next. They were allowed to know that if they could not become pregnant after some time, they were sent to the colonies.

They were not allowed to know that it wouldn’t matter. They were not allowed to know that they were already dead.

Vanessa liked to say she believed in God, but there was no amount of prayers, no amount of holy symbols you could surround her with to convince her that God was watching over her now. In the center, she couldn’t speak much. Each word that wasn’t uttered in prayer earned her another slap across the face or a shock to the side.

There were some openings, small pockets of time where the aunts weren’t listening, where she could turn her head to the side and speak to the girl beside her. She learned that her name was A’keria. That she was a sex worker. That she had a son. That she was afraid for him. That she missed him. Vanessa shared as much. About how she missed the stage. About how she missed her mom.

Each of those moments would come and go so quickly, but Vanessa clung to them, collected them, and carefully stored them in the back of her mind where she hoped no one would ever look for them. She held on to any chance to hear her name again. Held on to any chance to feel like a person again.

—

“What is this?”

Vanessa couldn’t help but flash a smile as Aunt Maria stepped towards her waving a white cap—her white cap—stained with soup, at her face.

“My dirty bonnet, Aunt Maria.”

“And what is on the bonnet?”

A crude outline, clearly printed in orange broth, earned stifled giggles and gasps of shock from the other girls. Vanessa’s smile grew wider.

“Never seen a pair of tits before, Aunt Maria?”

She knew the strike was coming, first at her legs, forcing her to crumple to the floor, the pain nearly blinding her. She could feel her arms being dragged up from her side as a strike to her hands brought them down again. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh, or cry, or perhaps taunt death a little longer. A little harder. 

Vanessa cried out as Aunt Maria pulled her up by the arm and dragged her to her bed. She was stripped and stinging antiseptics were applied to her wounds as she lay there, told to pray and beg God for forgiveness. The cycle would repeat as the young Latina refused to sit silent, and Aunt Maria grew more cruel.

_ Vanessa hated her. _

One reason was the abuse. The other was her name. Perhaps one of the top two ironies of her life is that she was delivered to a woman that bore the same name as the holy lady of Guadalupe herself _. _ A name that she had always found comfort in, now striking her face and burning her hands. She didn’t believe God played tricks as cruel as this, but it was getting harder to think otherwise.

More than that, the aunt was observant. Maybe it was because Vanessa couldn’t help but wear her heart on her sleeve. The older woman saw how her hands shook and her body tensed when the other handmaids were punished. She saw how the young handmaid would so tenderly reach out to the other girls when she believed no one was watching her, so she used it to her advantage.

When Vanessa had another outburst, this time kicking the other aunts away as they positioned her to practice for the ritual, Aunt Maria was ready. She dragged A’keria to the floor by her hair, watching Vanessa’s eyes grow wide and fearful. She kicked the poor girl until the sounds of her boot hitting her back echoed in the room.

Vanessa had sat there watching, defeated, and for the first time, quiet. 

—

She did well enough since that day. Spent far more time at the center than any of the others, but she did well enough. Ever since the incident with A’keria, they stopped talking, instead settling for sympathetic glances and gentle touches in the night. It was comforting, almost normal, but it did nothing to ease the static under Vanessa’s skin. It did nothing but remind her of the horror out there in this new world.

As the other girls left for their assignments, with their new names and new lives, Vanessa tried desperately to forget. She tried to forget her old life, her old family, her old name. She was jealous of those who could. Even A’keria—who was now Ofdavid—talked so beautifully about bringing a child into this world. As if she forgot how it would happen. As if she forgot about the one that was taken from her.

It had been a little more than two years since she was taken when Vanessa was set aside by Aunt Maria. She was given a small file—unlabeled of course, after all, handmaids must not read—with a single photograph of a man inside.

“This is Commander Hytes, a truly great man of God,” the older woman said reverently. “You will be given the honor to be handmaid to him and his wife. You who is now named  _ Ofgeorge. _ ”

She felt sick looking at the man who was to violate her, possess her. She wanted to rip the picture apart. She wanted to channel all the rage she’s been filled with for months on end. Instead she handed it back, stood up, and smoothed out her dress. “Praise be, Aunt Maria.” 

The turnover was quick. She was led out of the center with a small case of clothes and a rosary and driven to the new house at dusk. She wasn’t told about the old Ofgeorge, nor was she given any indication of what the family was like. Maybe they would be kind and leave her alone most days, only touching her when necessary. Maybe they would be cruel, and she would be beaten to death, and her blood would stain the perfect white walls of the pristine city. Maybe she would escape one day. The lurch of the vehicle as it stopped in front of the house was what brought Vanessa back to present. She did not expect to walk out into a beautiful front garden, surrounded by trees. She did not expect to see a woman—a martha she recalled—with kind eyes and a smile of joy, taking her bag and guiding her in by the small of her back.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you dear. My name is Nina. We’ll just have you meet the mistress before settling in, hmm?” She was warm, and definitely did not seem like the type to carry an electric stick. Nina led her into the home, into the living and dining area. It was perfect—neat, clean, luxurious in comparison to the stiff cushions and austere living area of the center.

“Is Commander Hytes not here?” Vanessa tried, her hands beginning to shake at the thought of meeting the man.

“No dear, but he’ll be back in a few days,” Nina replied. She seemed sad, like maybe she didn’t want that either. Or maybe Vanessa was projecting. “In the meantime, you’ll meet Mrs. Hytes. You know your responses well, my dear?”

“My—“ Of course. Responses, verses, etiquettes that control everything. That control everyone. “Yes, of course.” Nina gave a small nod before leading Vanessa to a hallway. She tapped twice on one of the doors before pushing her way in.

There wasn’t much in the sitting room she found herself in. Bare shelves that must’ve contained books once. A simple rug, a simple sofa and chair set. A barren desk with only knitting needles and a ball of yarn that looked practically untouched. A woman. 

Vanessa locked eyes with her. She looked younger than Vanessa had expected.  _ Weren’t these women supposed to be too old to have children _ ? She was doll-like, with her pale, barely flushed skin, and perfect creaseless dress. Her blonde hair was neat and styled away from her face. Her eyes were piercing green, looking straight at her.

She had said something, Vanessa responded appropriately, and that was that. Before the handmaid had a chance to say anything else, she was led out by Nina, into her upstairs bedroom, quiet once more.


	3. The Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a heavy rape warning! Though it's not explicit, please know your limits. If you want to skip over that particular scene, you can stop at "Let's Begin". There is a note at the end of the chapter for a brief summary. Enjoy!

Brooke was gay.

Her father knew ever since she was in high school, when he caught her in the back seat of his car with her “best friend.” _ As long as you’re quiet _ , he’d tell her.  _ As long as you’re careful.  _ She hid it the best she could, but she wasn’t always successful. There were rumors in her father’s firm, whispers in the break room, gossip by the watercooler. So what if she slept with a secretary or two? So what if she posted pictures of her dates on nights out? Brooke didn’t think it mattered. She wasn’t ashamed. 

It started much like everything else: excruciatingly slow. The gay bars started closing, her friends lost their jobs one by one. Homosexuality was added back into the list of mental disorders. Anti-discrimination laws were repealed. Then the witch hunt for gender traitors began. Brooke was luckier than most, she had her father to thank for that. He covered for her, gave her away to an influential man effectively ending any doubt and hiding the truth, like a secret tucked away in a safe, never to be reopened.

Well, until now.  _ Damn. _

She didn’t hear much from the handmaid since the day they met. They’d see each other in the dining room or in the hallway or during prayer, but that was it. Their interactions were sterile, much like everything else in the house. So why did she feel warmer every time she entered a room? Why did she feel drawn to her voice as she talked to Nina in the kitchen, or start smiling,  _ laughing  _ to herself when she heard the younger woman curse loudly after dropping something then try and cover the sound. God, maybe she was deprived.

_ Talking to her once wouldn’t hurt,  _ she thought.

So that’s how she found herself making her way out of her sitting room one evening, following the loud sounds into the kitchen where she found the handmaid on the floor, shattered ceramic on the tile.

“Who the fuck even uses tea cups anymore?” The Latina was on her knees, her hair down past her shoulders, facing away from Brooke, muttering to herself as she tried to contain the mess.

“You know, you probably shouldn’t curse so much when the commander comes back.” Brooke noted how the brunette tensed the moment she spoke, how she had stopped sweeping up the fragments off the floor.

“Good thing he isn’t around.” 

Brooke watched her. She sat motionless for a moment, still on the ground facing away, as if she was waiting for a reaction.  _ Was she waiting for me to say something? Reprimand her? Hit her? _

“He’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Praise be,” she said, quickly resuming her cleaning until the fragments were tidied away. She turned, finally facing the blonde. “Can I help you with anything mistress?”

_ There it is again.  _ The drop in her stomach, the warmth threatening to climb up her neck and find a home in her cheeks.  _ I am fucked. _

“Oh, no just—just tell Nina that she doesn’t have to worry about fixing dinner tonight. I’m not hungry.”

“Of course.” There was an edge to her words, a forced politeness.  _ She hates me, why wouldn’t she?  _ Brooke thought. It was fine, she didn’t know what she expected.

She excused herself to her room, stripping out of her dress and getting into a bath. The warm water swirled around her as she sunk deeper in, desperately trying to put out the fire beneath her skin.  _ It wasn’t right.  _ She didn’t know if she was talking about her infatuation or the world they were in. The handmaid was a slave, that’s what all women were these days.  _ It’s been so long.  _ It was more than lust,  _ there’s just something about her, _ but she couldn’t deny that lust was part of it. Heat pooled between her legs as a guilty hand traced its way down her pale skin.  _ God. _

Brooke fell apart with the thought of brown curls and brown eyes and pretended, just for a moment, that this could ever be real.

—

Mrs. Hytes was nothing like Vanessa expected.

First of all, she was  _ young _ . Maybe older than she was, sure, but definitely not old enough to be past her prime. Yet here Vanessa was, little more than a baby-making machine.  _ So she can’t have kids because… other reasons. God, she must’ve been every guy’s fantasy. _

Well, back when guys were allowed fantasies. She was _stunning_ after all, all legs and curves under her perfectly tailored dress. On her list of ironies, being posted at the home of Gilead’s hottest wife was definitely at the top.

It was infuriating too. She barely spoke, barely left her sitting room most of the day. It would be easy to paint her as this heiress trophy wife that floats above it all. Or a bitter wife filled with resentment at being left on her own. Or a power-hungry wife, after the esteem of her peers.  _ It’ll be easier that way  _ she thought,  _ It’ll be easier to hate her. _

So she tried. She looked away each time the blonde woman entered the room. She spit back her words in a way that would make the aunts at the center furious. She waited,  _ hoped _ that the blonde would strike her. She hoped for any fault in her polite exterior. Any indication that there was no heart under her pale skin. 

She knew the signs wouldn’t come. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she knew. Still, she wouldn’t stop trying, because the alternative—where  _ maybe  _ she wasn’t so bad; where  _ maybe  _ she was as good as she looked—was so much worse.

—

The next day was fairly busy, with the arrival of the commander in the evening. Nina rushed the handmaid out the door with orders to get apples and butter from the grocery as she cleaned every inch of the house. Brooke could feel the tension in the air as Nina glanced at her anxiously.   
  


“Mrs. Hytes, i’m so sorry, breakfast will be with you in just a moment, I—” The poor woman looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The commander had always been hard on the martha, doing what exactly? Brooke didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. She offered a hand to her, assuring her that she could get breakfast herself.

“At least with a new Ofgeorge here, he should be pleased.” Nina hummed, steadying her breathing and turning back to her cleaning. Brooke had the opposite reaction. She knew Nina meant well, she did, but she still felt a chill go down her back.  _ Of course. How could I have forgotten? _

Her husband didn’t touch her, he swore to Brooke’s father that he wouldn’t do anything to her, and frankly, he had lost interest. Maybe that’s what marriage did for him. They didn’t have to pretend to like each other, and if she didn’t think too hard about it, she could pretend that she didn’t dislike him either. The truth was, the less they saw of each other, the better. He was always in his office or his separate bedroom anyway, and god knows the things he did when he was away. The handmaids were a different story. They excited him. They made him feel strong, and smart, and powerful. The ritual was foreplay to whatever game he chose to play with them.  _ Fuck, why do I care? _ It’s not like this is the first handmaid they’d had. It’s not like she could do anything to stop him. It’s not like this handmaid was different from the others.

_ But she was. _

Brooke was good at forgetting though. She was good at hiding. She could hide away most things in her life, tuck them deep into the parts of her mind that even she couldn’t reach. She tore her eyes away from the spot Nina had just been standing in and hid. She hid every feeling that bubbled its way to the surface, every regret, every pang of guilt. She hid and made some breakfast.

As the sun set, she sat in the living room knitting _. _

Well, attempting to knit. A friend of hers taught her how back in college but she never really got the hang of it. Still, it was better than sitting around in prayer circles like the other wives. It was then that she heard a car pull into the home’s driveway and Nina rushing down the stairs. The older woman had the handmaid behind her, the shorter girl’s dark hair neatly tucked away into her cap. 

“Stand here, yes, straighten up please, good!” The handmaid obeyed without question, even nodding reassuringly as Nina fussed as she put things in order by the doorway. Brooke took her place beside them as they heard two pairs of footsteps coming up the stairs.

The door opened and in walked George Hytes, the driver walking in after him. Brooke didn’t kiss his cheek; she didn’t pull him into a hug. That’s what they agreed on. She greeted him, and he nodded towards her in acknowledgement, shedding his coat as they enter the living room.

“How have things been?”

“Good.” 

He set his things down, motioning towards Nina—who had been waiting, still as a statue—to bring them away.

“Did you welcome our new handmaid?” He looks towards the figure in red whose eyes were cast down.

“Yes, she’s—”  _ Beautiful. She’s captivating and fiery and filled with more life than anyone else in this godforsaken country.  _ “—healthy.”

“Good.”

Just as Brooke was about to turn and dismiss the younger girl to her room, the commander spoke again.

“Have her brought to my office. I’d like to meet our new Ofgeorge properly.”

—

The office was a wide space, different from the rest of the house in how  _ full _ it was. There were books up the walls and a set of expensive looking bottles and cigars on the coffee table. Dark wood and expensive fabric filled the room. There was a heaviness in the air, the dim space only illuminated by the lamp at the far end. A man sat at his desk regarding the handmaid with interest.

“Come, stand closer.” Vanessa didn’t realize that she had her back pressed against the door until she took a step away from it, her eyes refusing to look up as she felt the man’s gaze on her.   
  
“Welcome home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A pause. There was a shuffling of papers as the commander flipped through a folder.

“You’re Cuban?”

Vanessa looked over at the man for the first time. Really looked at him. He didn’t look like much. Behind the expensive suit and smell of whiskey that permeated every corner of the room there was just a man trying to look more important than the next guy.

“Puerto Rican.”

“This is your first posting.”

“Yes.” He stood up from behind his desk, walking towards her.

Their eyes met.

He looked…  _ hungry _ .

“But this isn’t your first time.”

His hands went up to her face, then to the cap on her head, peeling it off and letting her hair fall down past her shoulders. He dragged his hand lower and Vanessa felt bile rise in her throat at the innuendo. She knew all this “Man of God” talk they fed her at the center was bullshit. She had half a mind to tear off the hand moving down her body but she couldn’t. She  _ knew _ she couldn’t.

“I don’t think you should be doing that, sir.” She spat out the last syllable. He laughed. She hated the sound.

“The first ceremony is in two days. I’m just making sure everything is in working order.” He said this with a smile, handing back her cap. She narrowed her eyes, doing everything she could to stop herself from snatching it from his hand.

“Be ready for me.” He punctuated the statement with a squeeze to her ass that made her blood run cold. She shot out of the office so quickly that she hit the banister of the stairs on her way back to her room.

_ The first ceremony is in two days. _

_ Shit. _

She tasted salt in her mouth before she noticed the tears in her eyes. Not once,  _ not once _ since she was taken from her apartment had she cried, but now she couldn’t help it. The tears came in waves, filling her whole body with convulsions. She shook until the tears stained into the red of her dress. Until she fell asleep on the floor by her bedroom door.

She never felt more alone.

She never felt more scared.

The next two days passed quicker than she would have liked.

Nina treated it like a joyous occasion, more for Vanessa’s sake than anyone else’s. She fussed over the handmaid’s bath, gave her butter to rub on her skin—“ _ Works just like lotion!” _ —and pinned her hair up neatly, tucking every curl into her white cap. She felt very much like a prized calf, fattened, ready for slaughter.

“You look radiant,” Nina said with awe, giving the younger girl a sympathetic smile. They walked side by side into the living room to wait for the rest of the household.

The room was different today. There were fragrant candles lit on the mantel and a white pillow on the floor where the handmaid was to kneel. So she knelt, and she willed herself to go numb. To stop thinking.

The driver was next to arrive, standing unceremoniously behind the two. The commander and his wife came in next, the latter taking a seat on an armchair beside the handmaid.

“Let’s begin.”

—

Vanessa knew the steps of the ritual—or ceremony, or whatever they called it—as perfectly as it was drilled into her in the center.

Step one.

_ Genesis 30:1-3 _

_ And she said, _

_ Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; _

_ and she shall bear upon my knees, _

_ that I may also have children by her. _

The commander said these words slowly, as if deliberately lengthening each syllable. It was like watching a cat play with its food, drawing out the misery before the act is even begun. Then the prayer ended, and Vanessa was being led into the bedroom.

Step two.

_ Lay there.  _

She breathed deeply as the three of them got into position, her head on Brooke’s lap, wrists in her hands, and the commander between her legs, nails digging into her thighs.

_ He’s not supposed to do that. _

He was rough. She felt tears streaming down her face, releasing everything she couldn’t scream out. When she opened her eyes she saw the blonde staring down at her, her eyes glassy and wet, and her grip on her wrists tightening.

_ She’s not supposed to look at me like that. _

Step three.

_ Wait for it to be over. _

—

She doesn’t remember leaving their bed. She doesn’t remember stripping off her clothes and crying into her pillow. She doesn’t remember scratching at her thighs, the places he touched her, until they were red and raw.

_ It wasn’t supposed to be that fucking painful. _

When the tears dried up in her eyes she washed her face, stripping it of the oils and scents they were covered with since morning. She pulled her blanket over her body, willing the thin fabric to swallow it away, and lay in bed wide awake.

She didn’t expect Brooke to visit that night.

She did expect to be beaten. She supposed she had it coming. _That’s what they did right?_ _Beat the handmaids because they weren’t getting fucked by their husbands anymore?_ Frankly, Vanessa would’ve liked it. She wanted a reason to fight back, even just a little. Even if she knew she would lose. Any reason to distract her from how filthy she felt. How tired she was.

Brooke didn’t give her that reason.

She held a roll of cloth and a medicine kit in her hand. She kneeled by her bedside, coaxing her to the edge, and tended to her wounds, the scratches on her thighs, the bruises on her arms. She worked over every inch of skin that he touched, replacing roughness with soft cotton. She was so concentrated on Vanessa’s bare skin that it made the younger girl blush.

_ What the fuck. _

Every ounce of vitriol towards the blonde drained out of her body and in that instance she melted. When Brooke finally looked up, brown eyes meeting green, Vanessa saw everything—sadness, hope, fear, worry.

“I’m sorry,” Brooke whispered, barely letting the words leave her lips. It sounded like a promise. Like she would protect her. When she left the room that night, the words lingered in the air, lulling the handmaid to sleep.

But there was no protection here. The ceremony happened again, and again, and again each month. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, a daydream. Perhaps it was too much to ask, to be protected by the woman with soft hands and sad eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The commander, Brooke, and Vanessa undergo the ceremony. Brooke visits Vanessa in the night to tend to her wounds.


	4. Nightfall

Brooke was the first one out the door after the ceremony finished. She had to get out of there, had to stop the acid from reaching her throat and the tears from reaching her cheek. She hadn’t felt that way about the ceremony in so long. Hadn’t felt the disgust and anger she had towards her own hands in so long.

_ What am I doing? _

She sat curled up on the floor in her room, listening to Nina’s footsteps as she tidied up and the thud of the commander’s door. She waited until the house went silent, listening for any more movement, any breath. She stood up and made her way upstairs.

_ She’s probably asleep. _

Brooke had been outside the handmaid’s door for a good half an hour, clutching her medicine kit like a war nurse about to see a patient.

_ This is the last thing she wants. _

She just needed to check if she was okay. If she was going to be okay. If she would hurt herself. 

_ Fuck. _

Brooke knocked once, twice. She pushed the door open.

_ She’s awake _ ,

She was curled up against the headboard, but sat straight up as Brooke entered her room. She looked shocked for a moment before her expression melted into that of acceptance, defeat. Her eyes wary as Brooke approached, her entire body bracing itself. Waiting. 

It broke Brooke’s heart. 

Brooke sank to her knees by the handmaid’s bedside, the younger woman’s eyes going wide as she realized what she was doing. Brooke began to heal her slowly, whispering an apology, working her hands only as far as the handmaid would let her. It was soft, silent, almost like another sound would break this spell and they would wake up, vanish. Brooke wanted to hold her, to promise that she’d make things better. She wanted to take her far away from Gilead, too far for her eyes to reflect pain like that again.

She left without saying another word.

—

It was strange how the wave of everything that crashed over Brooke the night before left her with a sense of calm the next morning, a sense of clarity. It was as if the haze of the past two years lifted ever so slightly. She remembered every detail of that night, her repressive instinct failing to kick in. She felt awake for the first time in a while, and it was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

She made her way to the kitchen, to the smell of bread filling the room and the sound of Nina humming to herself. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Hytes!”

“Is the commander leaving on another trip or are you just happy to see me?” A note of teasing in the blonde’s voice.   
  


“I don’t know what you mean,” the martha said, clearly pleased. “And the commander is leaving _ tomorrow _ so he’s busy with preparations all day. Shouldn’t be back for a week or so.”

“Good, that’s good.”

Brooke sat in the kitchen for a moment, listening to Nina hum what sounded like a song from an old Disney movie.  _ Was it from Beauty and the Beast? Or maybe _ —

“Blessed day.”

Brooke’s head shot up at the voice, seeing the handmaid, dressed in her red coat and holding on to her white-winged hat, staring at her by the kitchen door. Her expression was unreadable as she moved towards Nina.

The blonde gave a nod, not taking her eyes off her as she took a set of tokens from the martha as part of her morning grocery run.

“Ofgeorge.” The name tasted sour in Brooke’s mouth, it felt fake, offensive even.  _ That won’t do.  _ Maybe it was the buzzing under her skin or the lightness in her head that emboldened her, but she was already so far in. She wanted to know her, the real her.

“Join me for a walk this afternoon?” 

—

The day was pleasant, with just enough sun to make the pond sparkle and the grass glow. They walked in step, silently making their way to the park. It wasn’t uncommon for a wife to walk with her handmaid, although usually under different, pregnant circumstances. A pair of guardians followed barely five feet behind them, watching them. Privacy it seemed, was a thing of the past.

Brooke couldn’t help but glance at the younger woman, or what she could see of her. The hood-like wings on her head covered her face on either side. The white wings were like blinders, preventing anyone from looking at the handmaids. From seeing their faces and hearing their stories. 

_ Say something Brooke. _

“We’ve been sent good weather.”

“Mhm.” 

_ Great. Just great. _

“The flowers are really blooming this time of year.”

_ That’s a stupid thing to say, come on just _ —

“Why are you doing this?” the younger woman said suddenly, as if reading Brooke’s mind, her voice wary as she looked straight ahead at the path. Brooke whipped her head to the side at the handmaid, the wings of her cap still obscuring her face.

“Walking in nature is good for the body.”

“No,” the younger woman hissed, lowering her voice to keep the guardians from hearing.

“Do you feel sorry for me? Is this some kind of pity walk with the handmaid for heaven points or somethin’?” She swallowed, as if it were difficult to get those words out. 

Brooke couldn’t find it in herself to correct her.  _ That’s exactly what it looks like doesn’t it.  _ She was too stunned to realize that the younger girl was still speaking.

“—and I appreciate you takin’ care of me last night, but if you’re just butterin’ me up for the next month, please don’t.” There was hurt in her voice, a sadness, an exhaustion. The handmaid started walking faster, attempting to end the conversation. Brooke’s heart hit her stomach.

“It’s not like that, please wait—” Brooke grabbed at the handmaid’s arm, holding her so that they were finally face to face.

“It’s not like that, please, I—what’s your name?” The question catches the Latina off-guard, as she widens her eyes.

“Ofgeorge.”

Brooke laughed in spite of herself at the barely-contained sarcasm dripping down the younger girl’s lips.

“Your real name.” There was a pause, a hesitation before she spoke, her voice so low and quiet as though she was sharing her most well-guarded secret.

“Vanessa.”

“Vanessa,” Brooke tasted the name for a moment, let it sink into her tongue. She couldn’t think of anything more perfect for the woman before her. The grip on her arm loosened and she was stroking her thumb against her bicep, pleading, “Please give me a chance, I can’t explain it… but, please.”

She didn’t quite know what chance she was asking for, but the conviction in her mind reached her voice and it seemed to be enough. Vanessa gave a nod and as the guardians behind them approached, the two broke apart. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light, but Brooke swore that she saw Vanessa smile for the first time.

—

Vanessa was awake, practically vibrating with energy.

The rest of the day passed in a haze since their walk—they didn’t dare say another word to each other and risk the guardians overhearing. That evening, Vanessa found herself in bed, staring at the ceiling as she let her thoughts catch up with every emotion, every sensation she captured in her body.

She was… frustrated. Brooke was frustrating. She had been cold and aloof one minute, then tender and gentle in the next. She had stared at her with the saddest, deepest eyes Vanessa had ever seen in a woman. She had left just as quickly as she came.

Then she asked her on a walk and Vanessa was confused. Had wondered if this was normal—to walk your handmaid the day after the ceremony—she wondered if she should be afraid.

Then she asked for her name. The name she wasn’t allowed to have anymore.

The sound of her name on Brooke’s lips sounded immaculate, it sounded right,

It sounded real.

Suddenly she didn’t care about the walks or the frustration. She just needed her to say her name again, and Vanessa would listen. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice the faint knock on her door. 

Her whole body tensed as she stayed silent, not knowing who could be on the other side.

_ It could be Brooke. _

Still, she couldn’t help but expect the worst. As much as she tried to forget, she still heard the commander’s words echoing in her mind. Flashes of that night in his office played in her head as her hands began to shake once more.

_ It could be the commander. _

The thought vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, however, when she saw a tall blonde step through the doorway. She was dressed in a simple cotton sleeping gown, her hair in wavy curls at her shoulders, looking almost shy.

“Vanessa.”   
  


There it was again, the name on her lips as if it had lived there for a thousand years. Hearing it was addicting, and she almost asked,  _ she would’ve begged,  _ for her to say it again, until she spoke once more.   
  
“I’m sorry, you must be tired, I’ll—” Brooke stammered, almost rushing out the door.   
  
“No, stay. Please.” She didn’t know if it was the pure curiosity at what she had to say, or the boredom after hours alone, or the fact that she just looked so beautiful in the moonlight, but she couldn’t let her go.

“Okay.”

—

Brooke sat by the younger woman’s bedside, propping her arm up on the mattress and resting her head. Vanessa laid down on the bed, her head to the side so they faced each other. 

“We could get caught,” Brooke said.

She knew they wouldn’t. She knew that guardians wouldn’t set foot in the Hytes household unless George asked. She knew George was out cold from the sleeping pill Nina slipped in his drink.

Still she wanted Vanessa to know the risk. It was her life on the line after all, and for what? Even she didn’t know.

“Okay.” The brunette’s gaze steady, her face only a foot apart from hers. The air was quiet, tense, but only for a second.

“Do you really know how to knit?” was the first question out of Vanessa’s mouth. Brooke laughed as the heaviness in the air dissipated in an instant.

“I try.”

“You might wanna try harder, pretty sure table runners ain’t supposed to have holes in ‘em.” The younger woman’s tone was light as she bit her tongue.

“You try learning to knit without reading instructions!”

“Miss Brooke Lynn, don’t be tellin’ me you actually  _ read _ knitting instructions.”

She laughed again and it was overwhelming almost, hearing her name from the woman in front of her, laughing in a pretty girl’s room at midnight like a teenager, it was euphoric.

This went on for days. They consumed each new piece of knowledge like fire to air. In the middle of the night they engaged in the forbidden pleasure of getting to know one another. They spoke freely, the late night releasing them from the filters they covered themselves with. They intoxicated each other with words they could never say to anyone else, could never trust with anyone else. They relearned sincerity and curiosity with each question and basked in every expression, every reaction. It was everything Brooke had been missing, everything she had distanced herself from.

—

“Do you have parents?” Brooke asked one night.

“My mom,” Vanessa said. “I think she was able to get back to Puerto Rico, but I can’t be sure.”

“Mmm.”

“Do  _ you _ have parents?”

Brooke shook her head, giving Vanessa a small smile. 

“Not anymore, my dad died just before all this. His last wish was that I married George.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“George? God, no.”

“He’s your husband, and pretty high up as a commander.”

Brooke scoffed, as if that word meant anything to her. Vanessa’s eyebrows raised questioningly.

“He’s like everyone else in this city, just as blind as everyone else, and twice as cruel.”

“He ever hurt you?”

Brooke saw Vanessa’s hands start to shake at the thought, as the blonde felt a rush of guilt running up her neck.

“No, he hasn’t.”

Vanessa nodded; she seemed relieved.

—

“Did you leave someone behind? A boyfriend?” No one could blame Brooke for being a little curious.

“Nah, and definitely no boyfriends. They didn’t call me a gender traitor for no reason.” Vanessa smirked.

“Oh.”

—

“Do you want a baby?”   
  
“No.” The blonde looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not here.”

Vanessa wasn’t shocked by this. No, Brooke wouldn’t want a child like this.

“Why am I here then?” Her voice wasn’t accusing, it was soft and gentle and Brooke wanted to lean into it, surround herself in it.

“George wants one, thinks it’ll get him a promotion.” A pause. “I can’t have kids myself, I was told it’s something to do with genetics.”

“Oh.”

“I try not to think about kids, not if I don’t have to.” Brooke couldn’t hide her guilt as she averted her gaze. She swallowed, wanted to continue. She wished she could make some kind of apology that would fix this, that would be enough.

“I think I’d be a great mom,” Vanessa mused, pulling Brooke out of her thoughts. “But you’re right, not here.”

—

“Where were you, y’know, when it happened?” The brunette didn’t need to explain more, she was talking about the assassination at Washington. The day the world changed.

“My wedding reception.” Brooke grimaced. She remembered hearing the news from one of her uncles, who then proceeded to cheer and drink the night away without a care. “George was appointed commander the next day.”

“Sorry to hear that.” And she did seem sorry, her expression one of deep pity. Brooke wanted to laugh. Here was a handmaid, apologizing that she didn’t get her privileged dream wedding.

“I don’t deserve that. I should be thankful.”

“No woman should be thankful if they live here. You’re just as trapped as I am.” The words washed over Brooke like a baptism, absolving her. It was true, and she was almost relieved to hear it.

—

“I used to dance.”

“Me too.”

“Ballet, I was good.”

Vanessa sat up, looking over the blonde’s body in the moonlight then shutting her eyes.

“…what are you doing?”

“Imagining it.” Vanessa grins, slowly opening her eyes again. “You’re right, you’re good.”

—

“Do you believe in God?”

“Mmm.” Brooke thought for a moment. She never considered herself a Christian. What did that mean anyway, besides a certificate you might get after baptism. She did believe in a god of some sort, a higher being, a creator. Certainly not the same one that passes through the lips of the commander each night as he reads the same verse from his Bible. Not the same god that is offered the strung up bodies of the dead each night. She said as much in reply.

She asks Vanessa if she believed in God. The younger woman thought for a bit before lying on her back and staring up at the cracks in her ceiling.

“‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’”

A pause.

“We ain’t ever been this far from heaven before. God’s gone, and we drove Him away.”

—

They whisper encouragements, laugh, lie there in the lull between the conversations until the birds start to sing outside Vanessa’s window and Brooke leaves.

Maybe they were friends, maybe more, if that meant anything. Still, there were unspoken rules, invisible lines they dared not cross.

They never touched, not even lending a comforting hand. Not unless it was the night of the ceremony, not unless they had to. Touch ruined the illusion, the space they created for themselves between midnight and dawn. Touch made it too easy, too comfortable. It created hope that they would be allowed to touch and touch and touch until they didn’t need to part anymore. They couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t promise that. 

Still, when they willed themselves to sleep just as the world woke up, they hoped. They spoke the other’s name in their silent prayers, and dreamed of each other in the sunlight.

It wasn’t enough, and each day they were willing to risk a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Many thanks to Meggie. Feedback is appreciated and cherished ❤️


	5. Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter: Brooke and Vanessa get closer after the ceremony, getting to know each other a little better under the cover of moonlight.
> 
> This chapter: The pair bend the rules even further.

It’s been four months and three days since the night Vanessa arrived in the Hytes household. Three months and twenty-eight days since the first ceremony.

Three months and twenty-eight days since Brooke first took care of her in the night. Three months and twenty-seven days since Brooke stayed a little longer.

Twenty-eight days since the last ceremony. Two days until the next.

Sometimes Vanessa thought that she could end it all before then, maybe even take the house down with her. And each time her nightmares felt far too real, each time she was faced with the blank stares of the women in the street or the bloody bodies hanging from the lamp posts as if they were Halloween decorations, she felt maybe, just maybe, today would be the day. Yet every time she thought of getting up to finally,  _ finally _ , do it—light candles in the kitchen one by one, shut every window, and let the gas from the stove fill the room until it combusts—something would stop her. Maybe it was how Nina was just a touch too compassionate for her own good, or how the commander was just a touch too cocky to give in to.

Or maybe it was  _ her _ .

Her green eyes that were endlessly sorrowful and endlessly searching. Her touches that were far too gentle and far too electrifying all at once. Her skin that she longed to feel against hers again. Her voice that spoke just above a whisper but never louder than the creaking of the floorboards under their feet. How they talked about their old lives, and, in hushed voices and in as many words as they dared, how they talked about their future. How she made her want to stay alive.

She whispered her secrets to Brooke on some nights—how she wished she hugged her mom one last time, how she wanted to walk around the streets screaming at the world to fuck off, how she wanted to end it all and fade away—and as they left her lips she felt the weight lift from her chest, as if Brooke was her confessor, bringing her absolution.

So the cycle continued, day after day, thought after thought.

At times she could convince herself that things were…good. The commander would be gone for weeks at a time after the ceremony, on some business trip or engagement. He’d come back too exhausted or drunk to do anything other than hole up in his office. There would be moments, a lewd comment when they passed each other in the kitchen or a look that lasted far too long when she crossed his room in the hallway, but nothing she couldn’t ignore. She was grateful for the minutes of quiet where she felt like no one was watching. She was grateful for the fading of the scars on her skin.

Her room was bare, about the size of the dressing room in the arts center where she used to perform. It had a small bed, a window, a closet, and a bathroom. Nothing personal, nothing special. During the day, it was her little box where she was tucked away like good silverware and only brought out when needed. At night, when she had Brooke by her side, it was almost comfortable, almost safe.

On some days, days when she didn’t leave the house and no one was home, she explored. She looked through the generic photos hung in the hallway and wondered if Brooke decorated the house herself. Maybe it came pre-made, ready for its picture perfect family. Other times, she stood by the window, avoiding the gaze of the guardians out on the street and watching the other handmaids walk by.

One afternoon, as the sun was just beginning to hit the treeline, Vanessa decided to look around as usual. She knew Brooke was out on another engagement with the other wives, the commander was god knows where, and Nina had gone to the other side of the city to drop off the laundry. She was never looking for anything in particular, it was a combination of chronic boredom and deep curiosity that led her to the basement.

Leaving the door open to let some of the remaining sunlight in, she headed down to the small room. It looked untouched, filled with storage containers and wrapped furniture, each box put aside and covered with old, stained bedsheets. It didn’t look like anything interesting, simply filled with junk just as generic as the rest of the house. She was just about to leave when a small pile caught her eye. The words were rubbed out, but she could still make out a faint “Brooke Lynn” on one of the boxes. 

Vanessa couldn’t resist.

She pulled out a small box, opening it to reveal a few notes written in a neat script. Class schedules, studio hours, ticket prices—a time capsule of Brooke’s old life. She leafed through the pieces of paper, smiling at a few photos she found of what she assumed was Brooke in her college years. Placing it back down, she fixed her attention to another box, unmarked this time, with a faded image on the side.

She had just lifted the cover when she heard a set of footsteps making their way down to her. They were heavy, and Vanessa cursed herself for not realizing that he could come home so soon.

_ The fucking door— _

“What are you doing here?” George waltzed in the room, a smirk on his lips as he came into view. The air in the room went cold as Vanessa felt her stomach turn at the sight. Just the two of them in the house.

“Sorry, I’ll go—” Vanessa muttered, dropping the box she was holding and moving towards the door, feeling immediately panicked.

“No, no stay.” He stopped her as she reached the doorway, grabbing her wrist and placing his other hand at the side of her neck. He put his thumb just under her chin, pushing her face to look up at him.

“After all, it’s hard to get a little alone time these days.”

Vanessa could feel the shaking in her hands start, fueled by the chills down her back. She wanted to curse him, spit out the venom she felt in her throat, but the hand around her neck seemed to constrict her voice as the smell of his breath got closer and closer.

“Might be more fun.” His smile was paralyzing as he brought her closer to him. “Don’t you think we should have some alone time, Ofgeorge?”

Vanessa wasn’t strong enough to push him away, instead opting to tilt her head as far as she could. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she tried not to think for a moment, tried to forget where she was, tried to let her mind go quiet—

“George?”

Neither of them heard the front door click, nor did they hear the shuffling of footsteps at the entrance to the basement. Brooke came into view, composed as ever if not for the panic in her eyes.

“What are you two doing here?”

In an instant, George had released his hold on Vanessa, eyes still darkened as he turned towards his wife, saying nothing to acknowledge her question. He stepped towards her in a move to leave, leaning into her for a moment.

“Control the handmaid, she shouldn’t be wandering.”

With that he stalked off, leaving the two women in the darkness. There was a silence as the footsteps of the commander faded, and Vanessa gave a sigh, a sob, as she clasped her hands together.

“Are you okay?”

“ _ God _ what an asshole,” was all Vanessa managed, a choked laugh coming out of her throat as she said it.

“Vanessa…“

Before she knew it, Vanessa felt a soft touch on her arm, one that quickly pulled her in for a hug. She sucked in a breath, stayed quiet for a moment not quite knowing what to do. Brooke’s body against hers was warm, soft, strong. It grounded her, and her hands stopped shaking as she broke the hug. It was new, this protective side of Brooke. Another layer to her that she didn’t realize was missing until now. It felt right, safe.

“Come on, we can’t stay here for too long.” Brooke spoke softly, gently brushing Vanessa’s hair back before withdrawing her touch completely.

“Wait—” Vanessa said, snapping out of her thoughts long enough to reach down to the discarded box. She lifted the lid before tilting it towards Brooke.

“From your ballet days right?”

Inside the box was a pair of pointe shoes, clean, simple, untouched for what must’ve been years. Brooke’s eyes widened at the sight as she nodded her head, looking at the relic from her past as if it were a precious treasure. It must be.

“Show me?”

—

Nights came much quicker now as the trees turned to fire and cold wind blew through the air. The streets were quiet as ever, with only the sound of birds in the trees.

There was a time Brooke hated the sound. Hated hearing the birds knowing they could sing and dance and  _ be _ . Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to do the same. 

It must’ve been hours since Brooke found Vanessa with George in the basement, since seeing her eyes begin to glaze over as his hand tightened around her neck. She closed her hands into fists at the thought. The thought of having Vanessa alone with  _ him _ .

It was enough to make her blood boil. Enough to make her do something incredibly stupid.

She had never broken the rules before, unspoken or otherwise. She never even allowed the thought to cross her mind. She was convinced that there were eyes around every corner, watching her, watching them.

_ But I haven’t done anything wrong yet. _

She hasn’t, not really. There wasn’t a Bible verse against talking, against sitting in a room in your own house, against silently pining for a future you can’t have. She let this thought sit in her mind a little longer, convincing herself more than anything.

Being with Vanessa felt too good to be acceptable, holy, too good for Gilead to see as right.

For three months she waited to be found out. Waited for the spell to end, for the gunshots at their window, for their door to be kicked down as Gilead caught two lovers in the act.

_ Lovers? _

No, not lovers. There was nothing to catch, nothing to see, nothing that left a trace.

Brooke looked down at the shoe box in her lap, lightly running her hands up and down the cover as though to check if it were still real. She opened it and stared at the shoes—pristine, waiting for her.

She could keep it that way, never letting the shoes out of their box. Never letting their voices venture past Vanessa’s small bedroom. Never letting their act of rebellion last longer than the rise and fall of the moon each night.

Or.

_ Or. _

She could leave.

Just for a night.

She picked up the shoes, setting the box down under the bed. They were soft in her hands, having broken them in all afternoon. The feeling of putting them on again was bliss, but this house had no room to dance. No room for music or joy.

She was still waiting for the glamour to fade, for someone to catch wind of their plans, their nightly meetings, their hushed voices.

But nothing came, and Brooke felt a rush of adrenaline through her veins from the knowledge that  _ maybe _ they could get away with this, with everything.

_ This is stupid. _

Brooke knew it was a long shot. She knew that the consequences weren’t worth the risk, but the sounds of birds were ringing in her ears that night, along with Vanessa’s words.

_ “Show me?” _

How could she refuse?

—

Brooke had on a black coat, the blue of her dress barely peeking out from underneath it. She carefully placed her shoes inside a bag which she carried over her shoulder, scanning the room,  _ not a thing out of place, _ before heading upstairs to fetch Vanessa.

She was already dressed in her bright red coat and boots, her hair tied back but free from the white cap, her face quickly flickering from worry to relief as she saw Brooke enter through the door.

“So we’re really…?”

Brooke gave a nod, smiling despite the pounding of her heart in her chest as Vanessa walked towards her, the sole of her boots making dull thumps against the wooden floor.

“You can’t wear that.” Brooke gestured to her red coat. It was the color of life-blood, a deep crimson, and far too noticeable even under the cover of night.

  
“I ain’t got nothing else you know.”

Brooke nodded, leading Vanessa down the stairs, into her room, to her closet. She picked out a dark coat like her own, and wrapped it around her. The hem grazed the floor, but effectively drowned out the red in her dress.

“We good now?” Vanessa’s voice was quiet, or as quiet as it could be. Her eyes were bright and she was practically vibrating in the bundle of fabric surrounding her.

Brooke gave a nod as she led them both out to the kitchen area, her mind running a mile a minute on their next steps. She had planned their way, somewhat, but the gravity of what they were about to do only hit her as she stared at the back door of her kitchen.

_ There’s a forest that no one patrols just the next block over, we just have to be quiet and maybe the guardians won’t see us. God, but the Johnsons’ have that big window and _ —

“Mrs. Hytes?” A shuffling of feet followed the voice, the sound booming against the silence of the kitchen. 

_ Fuck, Nina. _

The pair turned around, Vanessa immediately reaching for a salt shaker, ready to chuck it as hard as she could.

If Brooke’s heart wasn’t beating into her ears she might’ve laughed.

They were both frozen as they watched Nina walk out, visibly tired, in a simple cotton nightgown. It was a stark contrast to the near delusional levels of optimism Nina usually had, instead replaced with a serious, worried look. Just as quickly as it had appeared, Nina’s expression softened as she regarded the pair. It was another few seconds before she spoke again, eyeing Vanessa who was still holding up the salt shaker.

“Don’t go that way, they monitor all the back exits of houses here. Take the front door and circle around.” Nina’s tone was sober, a far departure from the rule-abiding citizen Brooke was accustomed to.

“Hide by the Johnsons’ if you need to, they’re on holiday this time of the year. Guardians won’t stay in one place too long this time of night and—” She took a deep breath, shaken but determined to finish. “When you get to the forest keep walking. No one patrols the old sector of town because of radiation, but a few hours won’t hurt you.”

Her eyes met Brooke’s and she gave a small smile.   
  
“I’m making pancakes in the morning.”

Brooke’s heart broke for her.

Nina, who has watched her fall apart, fall into herself. Who was willing to take the fall if they were found out. Who understood why she needed to do this.

“We’ll be back. Thank you,” Brooke whispered, attempting to convey every ounce of gratitude in her words. Without further delay, Brooke and Vanessa headed for the front entrance, Nina’s gaze and worried sigh following them out the door.

The first breath of the cold outdoor air filled Brooke’s nose and throat as she stepped outside, listening for any sound, any movement. When none came, they walked around the block, sticking close to the bushes that lined the sidewalk, ducking away from the light of the street lamps.

The sky was dark that night, the clouds hiding the moon and the stars, not a light in the sky to give them away. They walked for a while longer until they reached the street corner, Brooke looking out on either side to see if it was safe. She saw a glimpse of a guardian on the other end of the street before he disappeared around the other block. That was their cue.

They rushed across the road, trying to keep the sounds of their feet light despite the blanket of dry leaves underneath them. They made it to the Johnsons’ house, the forest being just a short stretch away.

“Brooke.” She felt Vanessa’s hand on hers, squeezing tightly. Brooke didn’t realize how cold her hand had become as she squeezed back, looking at Vanessa, her expression unreadable.

“We’re almost there.”

“Okay.”

Once Brooke was convinced the path was clear, they sprinted across the Johnsons’ property into the forest, hiding behind the trees for a moment, catching their breath, then sprinting off again, deeper, further. They had small pen-lights that barely illuminated the path ahead, preventing them from stumbling into trees or over roots.

They made their way as swiftly as they could manage, Brooke making silent prayers that they were heading in the right direction. They turned into a clearing and saw a rooftop that told them they were in the right place.

This part of town was abandoned from residual radiation poisoning—or perhaps ghosts of the past—but it couldn’t hurt them any more than captivity did, more than the stifling life they had led up until this moment. Hand in hand, they navigated the streets, trying to make sense of the signs despite the words being rubbed off, Brooke trying to piece together what she remembered of the old area. Soon enough they made their way around, finally reaching an old theater building.

“In here?”

Brooke nodded, pushing into the theater.  _ Unlocked _ , she mused,  _ they must’ve thought it wasn’t important enough to close off. _

The pair made their way to the stage, their footsteps hurried, excited. Somehow, Vanessa had found the switch board for some stage lights, a few of them flickering on, bright enough to illuminate the dusty stage floor. They both headed up on stage, Vanessa sitting by the wings, looking over the empty seats in awe.

“Do you miss it?” Brooke asked, shedding her coat and lacing up her shoes.

“Miss what?”   
  


“Performing.” Brooke brought out a small music player, nothing louder than a phone speaker, that she had found in the commander’s office and hidden in her bag. It wouldn’t play loudly enough surely, but in the silence of the theater and with their hearing, acute and trained from many whispered conversations, it was perfect.

“Oh. Yeah, but I miss the crowds more.” Vanessa sighed sadly, still looking out at the rest of the room. “The freedom, energy—none of this ‘praise be’ bullshit, y’know?”

“Yeah, me too.” Brooke looked at her for a moment more before selecting a song on the player. The tune played out, slightly tinny, but clear enough for the both of them to hear.

“Break a leg.” Vanessa smiled as she set herself closer to the front of the stage, her coat splayed around her body, full attention on Brooke.

_ First position. _

It was overwhelming, being back onstage. She hadn’t practiced in so long that a sudden fear of not remembering how to dance hit her, momentarily, before she started to move.

Then she couldn’t stop.

Her legs moved from underneath her, hands floating around her body as she twirled, leaped, felt every moment of it. Before she knew it, she was on her toes, kicking up her blue dress and moving across the whole stage.

Arms open, legs extended, bird-like.

She started moving faster, following every rise and fall of each note.

_ Crescendo. _

A leap.

A spin.

This was everything she had missed, the rush of air moving through her lungs, the feel of her body moving every way she asked it to.

  
Total control, complete freedom.

The music was ending, slowing as Brooke gently took her final position center-stage.

_ Bow. _

Brooke smiled, holding herself still as she took slow and steady breaths as she closed her eyes.

The lights on her skin felt like sunlight—warm, inviting.

There were tears down her face as she opened her eyes again and looked towards Vanessa as if she were the brightest light on that stage.

Vanessa was across the floor in seconds, unable to stop herself from running to Brooke and wrapping her arms around her waist. Brooke gasped and held her tightly, burying her head in her hair.

“You’re beautiful.” The awe in her voice made Brooke blush.

She placed her hand on Vanessa’s cheek, just holding her for a moment. Vanessa’s eyes were sparkling so brightly and her hands felt so warm against her sides, pressing against her, pulling her in. Suddenly all she could see was Vanessa, her dark eyelashes, her soft cheeks, her lips.

She leaned down, as if drawn by a magnetic force, and kissed her gently, softly.

She felt every beautiful, bottled up emotion bursting in her chest, beneath her fingers, in her mouth. She moved her lips slowly, deepening the kiss, feeling something flutter in her stomach as Vanessa kissed back eagerly, freely. A million thoughts ran through her head, how much she wanted to taste her, to run her hand up her dress and follow each touch with her lips, how much she wanted to tangle their legs together and run her hands through her hair.

It was near perfect.

She broke the kiss for a moment to look at Vanessa, as if to ask if she was okay, if this was okay.

She got her response in the form of lips against hers once more, as though they belonged there.

And just for that moment, they felt good. Safe.

Alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And as always, a million thanks to Meggie for being the best beta ever and for all the ideas she's helped me with for this fic. Feedback, questions, and criticism are welcome! You can also find me @gabby-writes on tumblr and Gab on AQ!


	6. Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter: Brooke and Vanessa bend the rules
> 
> This chapter: Rules break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I decided to split this chapter into two thus a shorter update. Uni has been an absolute whirlwind and I’ve been adjusting to the workload, but I think I’ve gotten into the groove of writing a little bit every day. Meggie is a wonderful beta and overall human being as usual and I HIGHLY suggest giving her all the love. With that being said, enjoy!

Vanessa didn’t know how long they stayed there, their figures illuminated by the stage lights. It could’ve been anywhere between two minutes and two hours—she hasn’t seen a clock in so long that it barely mattered.

All she could feel, see, think was  _ Brooke _ .

How she moved on the stage as though she had never stopped dancing. How she had hugged her so warmly. How her lips tasted like tea and honey.

How she just made sense.

How they made sense together, even though they shouldn’t.

They broke apart after a couple of attempts, prying their lips away as one would split a magnet. Though it was still dark outside, the pitch black of the night sky had begun turning a deep blue, as though the sky was warning them of their fading hours.

Vanessa’s smile matched Brooke’s perfectly as they made their way back to the house, tracing their fingers over their lips when they thought the other wasn’t looking, deep blushes concealed in the shadows.

Their hands were linked the whole way, daring the world to break them apart.

The block was quiet as they darted across the streets, both women charged with electricity and adrenaline and possibility.

They did it.

Escaped, even if it was just for a moment.

They could do it again.

They entered the house like giggling school girls that just cut class, smiles impossible to remove from their faces. The house was silent as ever as they returned their coats and sat by Vanessa’s bed.

The room felt different now, more temporary. As though they wouldn’t have to be there for much longer.

“You kissed me.” It was strange to Vanessa. Two people in their situation, sharing a moment so pure and happy. She should be conflicted, confused even, about where she stood in Brooke’s life, but her mind and eyes kept drifting back to Brooke’s lips and she let the light feeling in her chest take over her thoughts.

“Yes,” Brooke answered softy. They were on Vanessa bed, legs winding together in order to fit. Neither seemed to mind as the dawn came in through the window.

Maybe they were pushing it, letting the sun catch them like this, holding each other close in the daylight. The thought had crossed their minds surely as the room grew brighter, but Brooke’s lips were on Vanessa’s again and maybe it didn’t matter.

The haze of the late morning set in as Vanessa woke, not even realizing she had fallen asleep, soft touches of lips on skin being the last memory she could conjure in her mind. She stretched out her limbs, finding herself alone in her room.

They weren’t so bold as to stay together all night, perhaps not yet. That didn’t prevent the pang of disappointment from hitting her chest.

She sat up, recharged despite the few hours of sleep. There was no way she could let this go now, no way she could allow herself—allow them both—to stay here, to act as if they could stand Gilead for one more second.

The ceremony would be the next day.

_ We have to leave, _

_ Tonight. _

Vanessa felt a surge of fire through her body, something she hadn’t felt since she had led riots on the streets, since the night she was taken. A boldness she’d lost over the last few months, renewed overnight.

All because of her.

And maybe she wore it too proudly, a skip in her step as she made her way down to the kitchen, following the smell of the maple syrup over warm pancakes, just as Nina promised.

  
Brooke was already there, smiling warmly at Vanessa, her fork halfway towards her mouth. 

“Morning, dear,” Nina called out cheerfully, flipping the last of the pancakes on her pan and placing it on an empty plate.

“You do too much Nina,” Vanessa said fondly as she gratefully accepted the plate and doused it in maple syrup, making Brooke giggle beside her.

“Commander left real early this morning,” Brooke provided, somewhat explaining the cheerful mood Nina was in.

“Hey, I promised pancakes, didn’t I?”

They laughed, ate pancakes, lazed around like a group of friends after a sleepover. In the early afternoon light they washed up together, as though they could’ve lived like this in another life.

Brooke must’ve thanked Nina a thousand times, held her hands, kissed her cheeks, drunk on happiness she hadn’t felt in months. They stayed like that for the rest of the day, only interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

“I haven’t seen you so happy.” Nina squeezed Brooke’s hands before releasing one to cup Vanessa’s cheek. The younger woman leaned into it, a happy sigh escaping her lips.   
  
“And maybe… Maybe you’ll leave someday, yeah?” Nina’s voice dropped to a whisper as she said this, a hopeful tone to her voice.

The door bell sounded once again.

“Maybe we all will.” With one final squeeze of her hand, Nina went to answer it. Once Nina had left, Vanessa turned to Brooke, a new fire in her eye replacing the sated, dazed look she had on all day.

“We should.”

Brooke looked at her for a moment, not fully grasping the words.

“Should what?”

“Leave. We should leave. Tonight.”

“‘Nessa—” The endearment slipped through Brooke’s lips before she had a chance to think. It was so much, the words hit her like a jolt of electricity cutting through the slow morning happiness that had settled into Brooke’s stomach. Still, she found herself agreeing to every word, and her mind spun at the dizzying possibility of freedom.

“I know it’s a lot, and I can’t risk—I can’t ask—I know you’re safe here. But you need to be out there. And I need to be out there with you.” She paused for a moment, allowing Brooke to absorb each word before delivering the final blow.   
  
“I can’t do another ceremony, Brooke.”

Guilt clouded Brooke’s vision and Vanessa winced as she said it, but then the blonde nodded, taking Vanessa’s hands into her own. She had a look of understanding in her eyes, and  _ maybe _ they could do it.

Maybe this was it.

A sound from the front door caused Brooke to look up.

_ It was Nina. _

_ “Please, what are you _ —”

The sound of a body being pushed over.

A door slamming into the wall.

An angry cry from the living area that sent chills down Vanessa’s back.

It was too late to run, to hide, to do anything other than watch as two figures in black rushed into the kitchen.

—

It happened so fast.

One moment Brooke’s hands were warm in hers, possibility and excitement coursing between them, then Vanessa was being dragged away—by her hair, by her elbow—and Brooke felt all the warmth Vanessa had imparted to her drain into a cold chill. Her feet followed automatically, unable to say a word, unable to stop her lungs from freezing in her chest as she watched Vanessa shake, shout, plead.

The two figures dragged Vanessa out the door, slamming her into the concrete.

  
There was blood on her face, on her hands, and she was shouting at them.

_ Still fighting. _

But Brooke was silent.

All the screams she wanted to let out were dry in her throat as she watched a small crowd forming in front of their household, watching the scene unfold as if it were some kind of pantomime.

As she watched her worst fears materialize in the form of Vanessa’s body being thrown into the ground each time she moved to get up.

As she watched the men in black pull out firearms and aim them at Vanessa’s head.

Brooke had never felt fear like this before.

“Stop.”   
  


Brooke’s hand came up to her mouth in surprise, not knowing how in the world she was capable of speaking.

But it wasn’t her voice, and the men were facing away, looking at a man standing in the street.

_ George _ .

The commander had walked up to the scene, glancing at Vanessa for a moment before tilting his head towards the van, a signal for the men in black to drag her inside, shutting the door with a deafening slam.

His eyes were cold, focused,  _ deadly, _

And trained directly at Brooke.

Something in her had snapped—all quiet, logical thought completely gone from her mind as she moved on instinct, grasping at every sensory input her mind could comprehend.

_ Vanessa isn’t dead. _

_ Vanessa isn’t dead yet. _

_ The van is leaving. _

_ Where are they taking her? _

_ Should I go with them? _

_ George is here. _

_   
_ _ George stopped them from killing her. _

_ George is looking at me. _

_ George is coming towards me. _

_ Will he kill me? _

_ He’s in front of me. _

_ He _ —

A sharp pull on her shoulder caused her to gasp in pain, and she was being dragged backwards into her house, unnoticed by the crowd outside.

_Nina_ _is on the floor._

_ Is she bleeding? _

_ She’s not moving. _

The same two men in black had followed them inside, locking the door behind them. Brooke’s shoulder stung as the grip on it tightened and a sudden, sharp pain in her back caused her to cry out.

_ Fuck, what  _ is _ that? _

She fell over as soon she was released, the sudden rush of blood searing through her body, a cattle prod pointed at her from behind.

“Get up, Brooke.”

George’s voice was severe as he stood over her. Her eyes darted around, recognizing the bare surroundings of her sitting room, the curtains drawn. When she finally propped herself up on her shaking arms, she saw something burning—furious—in his eyes.

Brooke had never seen that before.

“What—” Her mouth was dry, cold. She wrapped her arms around herself as if it would stop her from trembling. Whether it was caused by the cold, fear, or anger, she couldn’t tell.

“I ask for one  _ fucking _ thing, and that’s for you to behave like your father told you to.” Each word hit her face as if he had spit on it. “Look what you’ve done.”

“What  _ I’ve  _ done? You called the guardians on us, in your own fucking home!” Brooke lashed out, shocked at the volume of her voice before her outburst was rewarded with a hard slap to her face from the guardian to her side.

“You could’ve cost us everything, my  _ job _ , my  _ life _ .”   
  
“Hang me then.” Brooke’s voice was filled with spite, her anger working faster than her thoughts as each word spilled from her mouth.

He smiled, a smug look in his eye.

“I’ve got a better idea.” He made a move to leave the room, allowing the guardians to knock her down one more time before they locked the door behind her.

Brooke’s mind had gone quiet again, barely registering her surroundings, solely focused on a single word.

_ Vanessa. _

She didn’t notice when the sun began to go down.

_ Vanessa. _

She didn’t notice the faint click of the door behind her.

_ Vanessa. _ __   
__   
She didn’t notice the sudden darkness that surrounded her.

_ Vanessa. _

She didn’t notice the needle pricking into her skin until suddenly she couldn’t hear the voice in her head saying the one name that mattered most.

_ V— _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is absolutely appreciated!


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